


Greylands (An Interlude)

by omegal14 (unheard_secret)



Series: Shameless [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ...perhaps there's more to follow?, Anyway... I hope there's something to enjoy here, M/M, This is very short, but I thought I'd post it anyway, despite the fact it's so short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:20:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unheard_secret/pseuds/omegal14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock spends three days on the couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greylands (An Interlude)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry this is so short, but I've had it hanging around for awhile. I'm posting it because I figure that it can act as an emotional interlude between the revelation of the last story, and the (as yet unwritten) story that is to come.

Sherlock spent three days on the couch. 

John didn't say anything. He moved as quietly as he could around the flat. He tried to be as unobtrusive as possible. He went to the surgery during the day, and spent his evenings reading before going to bed, sitting in his chair and offering silent companionship. He let Sherlock mourn the life he'd lost. He let him wallow in his sorrow.

On the third day he placed Sherlock's mobile on the coffee table by the couch and said evenly, "Lestrade has a case."

Sherlock didn't react. 

John sighed and rocked back on his heels. He went and made himself a cup of tea. He drank it standing by the kitchen bench. He made Sherlock a cup of tea and took it into the lounge room. He placed the tea beside the phone. 

"Lestrade has a case," he said again. "A body was found in room locked from the inside. The police have hit a dead end. No one seems to know how it was done."

Sherlock's left foot shifted to scratch at the back of his right calf. It was the first movement John had seen in from him hours. But he still didn't roll over and he didn't respond. 

John frowned. "Sherlock --" he started. He stopped abruptly. Taking a deep breath he went and sat in his chair on the other side of the room. He gazed at Sherlock, his expression contemplative. Sherlock didn't move. 

Nearly half an hour passed before John went upstairs. When he came back down he was carrying his coat, and his wallet was tucked into the back of his jeans. 

"I'll just be going alone then," he said, his friendly tone almost dismissive. 

John paused in the lounge room door. He didn't know what he was waiting for. He didn't even know why he thought this would work. But Sherlock had been wallowing in his self-pity for long enough, and the only thing John could imagine might make him move was the promise of a case. 

Lestrade had phoned the day before, asking John why Sherlock wasn't answering his phone, worried that something had happened. John had reassured him the Sherlock was all right, but hadn't offered any explanation for Sherlock's silence. When and where Sherlock wanted to reveal his new circumstances was his choice, not John's. Still, the way things were going, it was starting to look like Sherlock was never going to move, and John couldn't have that. 

With a sigh he turned and started down the stairs. His foot was only on the second step, however, when he heard Sherlock's voice -- uncharacteristically soft -- behind him. 

"They won't see me the same way," he said, his voice muffled by the cushions on the lounge. 

John froze. He turned slowly and walked back toward Sherlock. "No," he agreed, leaning back against the door frame. "They won't."

Sherlock gave a muffled sound of frustration and flipped himself about so he was sitting with his feet firmly on the floor, his dressing gown tight about him, and his hands clasped in front of his eyes. He was frowning, the expression clouding his features, making him look dangerous. John stayed where he was. 

"I don't want them to see me differently," said Sherlock, his voice tight with anger. 

John nodded, his movement slow and controlled. "I know," he said. 

Sherlock gave a frustrated yell and stood. 

He strode over the coffee table, his bare feet making a soft slap on the glass, before grabbing his violin and pulling the bow down the strings in a fierce screech of defiance. "And what do you know?" he asked, turning to point to violin's bow at John accusingly. "What do you know?" he asked again. "You know nothing. You are an alpha and a soldier and a doctor, and what can you _ever_ know about me? I'm just an omega. A breeder. A nasty little come-whore designed to lose my mind once a month in the pursuit of something I'll never want. You'll never have to go through that. What makes you think you can _know me_?" He jabbed the bow viciously in John's direction. 

John gave Sherlock a serious look. "I know you Sherlock," he said simply. "And what I don't understand, you can explain."

Sherlock gave a huff of derisive laughter. "And what makes you think you'll understand _anything_ I say?" he asked. He turned away from John, the bow in his hand wavering. "What makes you think you'd want to understand?" he asked, the bow dropping down by his side.

John frowned. "Of course I'd want to understand," he said softly. "You are still _you_ , Sherlock." He strode over to Sherlock's side, standing as close as he could without invading the other man's space. "You're still _you_ , and no hormone is going to change that."

Sherlock swayed a little. "I'm dizzy," he said softly. An olive branch in the form of an illness. Perfect. 

John stared at him. "Of course you are," he sighed. "You haven't eaten properly for almost a week."

Sherlock glanced up at him in surprise. "Oh," he said. Then he collapsed in John's arms. Again.


End file.
